


The epitome of a perfect lady

by Alayne_StoneColdFox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Boarding School, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Sexual Content, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:38:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/pseuds/Alayne_StoneColdFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1930's boarding school AU.</p><p>Sansa is a perfect student. Reserved, courteous, and even among Constance Ashford's finishing school for girls she stands out among the rest as the epitome of what a lady should be.</p><p>However, when she steps into the darkened office of Mr.Baelish, she feels a different kind of lady entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The epitome of a perfect lady

Constance Ashfield's finishing school for girls had a reputation among the wealthy . 

It was a place that bred perfection. 

There was no girl finer than a Constance girl. Give us your daughters, send us your girls, we'll return them to you as ladies. Fully grown women who will go out to charm the world with their wit and grace. Every banker, businessman,baron, duke and prince should aspire to marry a Constance girl, who had been taught all manner of arts and languages, and the finer points of sophisticated conversation. She could discuss politics, as well as throw dinner parties and high teas. She knew how to cook and clean and sew, as a Constance girl was modest and well versed in all the tasks a women should be.

They valued charm and grace and loyalty above all, but there was another side to the polished coin that was Constance's. Academic rigour. Strict rules, and rigid stoicism, and you were expected to take it with stride. It was a closed off institution of correctness, with rules that stretched from no smoking, no drinking, no card playing, all the way to no fixing of hair during meals, no jewellery was to be worn unless it was the Lords cross, and the seam of your stockings must be kept in a straight and neat line at all times.

The grand manor house lay on the outskirts of the country side, beside a wide lake, an hours walk from the nearest town. They slept in long dormitories, twenty four girls to a room, twelve beds down each side, all perfectly spaced apart from each other. They were woken up at the crack of dawn by cheerful “Good morning” from the maids, as they pulled back the curtains. They would dress behind screens for the sake of modesty, before filing down for breakfast at seven, ready for morning prayers by seven fifty five. Their days were filled with classes. History. Literature. Latin. As well as embroidery and dancing and etiquette. Knowing the difference between a table spoon, a soup spoon, a dessert spoon, a coffee spoon, a tea spoon was just as important as knowing the works of Shakespeare and your roman numerals. 

For the right kind of girl it was heaven, and Sansa stark was just such a girl. She thrived in this haven of ladylike perfection. 

Tall, willowy, Sansa had the envy and admiration of her classmates. She made it all look so easy. The way she kept her back straight for hours as she sat at her desk, shoulders back, ankles crossing beneath her chair without a second thought. The way her voice dripped with soft honey as she spoke, never forgetting her courtesies. Ever the epitome of what a lady should be.

In the real world she was considered reserved, quiet, perhaps old fashioned, and almost false in the way that every move she made, every word she uttered, seemed measured to portray exactly how she wanted to be seen, and not necessarily how she really was. Her brothers had never related too it, her sister outright hated it, but here it was what made her shine. This world was an act, these grounds were her stage, one hundred and fifteen other girls and yet it was her who was the star. She had never slipped or forgotten her lines once.

“Very good, Sansa. Lovely stitching” Miss Mordaine praised as she wandered past behind her chair.

“Thank you” Sansa smiled modestly, pulling the pale blue thread through the soft lace of the handkerchief she was almost done making. A little bird with pink and pale brown thread sat on a branch of blue Hydrangeas in the right corner, with her initials Stitched in the left.

It was a sunday, which meant no structured classes, besides the mornings mass, but this did not mean the girls had the day off to meander about. It may seem as much, and the girls were told they may spend their free time as they wished, but there was an expectation. Many girls went out to practise their games, Lacrosse and tennis being the most popular, or stayed in view of their housemothers, doing any such thing deemed more productive than lazing around gossiping. 

So Sansa had taken to one of the common areas, with plush chairs and tall windows looking out onto the lake, her small wicker sewing kit seated on an ottoman besides her. Other girls were dotted around the room, talking quietly as they worked on their latin, or read books, or wrote letters home to their families.

Sansa might have done the latter, had she a family to write too.

She had to pause her stitching for a moment, having almost caught her finger with the needle, her attention slipping the second she thought of her parents. Her brothers. Her sister. 

But that was all it was. A moment. She pushed the needle through the silk with well practised fingers and pulled the thread smoothly through to add another notch to her hydrangeas.

There was no point in stopping to cry, to cause a scene. Many of the girls here at Constance's had lost at least one loved one to the war, and you did not see them weeping.

It was not another half hour before she was done, the finished handkerchief sitting in her lap as she shut her sewing kit for the day, thread wound up tightly, needle and thimble back in their case. She glanced up at the time on the grandfather clock across the room. Four thirty in the afternoon. She had quite some time before dinner.

She made her way through the near empty halls, only passing a pair of girls hurrying along with their hockey sticks as they headed out to the grounds. 

It was just her luck that her dorm room wasn't as empty.

Maragaery Tyrell was sat on her bed in the centre of the room, legs tucked under her, as one of her many friends lay her head in her lap, with Margaery braiding small sections of the girls blonde hair into plaits. There were more girls sat as casually on the beds around them, a little brood of seven in total, all giggling and chatting. Gossip, Sansa thought, no doubt.

There was a small flurry of turned heads as Sansa made her way in, stepping down past them in the narrow alley between the lines of beds, the dark wooden floorboards creaking as she walked. The girls had all gone quiet, and Sansa felt them watching, as she made her way down to the end bed which belonged to her.

“Hello, Sansa” Margaery said, eventually, as Sansa packed away her sewing basket into her trunk. Though she slipped the now finished handkerchief up the sleeve of her blouse.

“Hello” Sansa replied, pleasantly enough. 

She shuffled through her neatly organised things to grab out her arithmetic book, and that was all she needed before she snapped the trunks lid shut again.

“Where are you going?” Margaery asked, innocently enough, as she strode back down the dorm.

Sansa made a show of the book in her arms “I was hoping to get some help with my sums, while I have some free time” 

“Oh? With who?”

“Mr Baelish” Sansa answered curtly.

“So studious” she heard a girl mutter, loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to sound chastising all the same. Jealousy, Sansa reasoned.

She turned again to leave, but was again stopped by Margaery's voice.

“You visited Mr. Baelish only last tuesday after class, didn't you?”

Sansa turned and the two girls locked eyes, their expressions unreadable to those around them.

“Well, I wouldn't want to fall behind” Sansa said, after a moment of deliberation, her words carefully chosen.

“No, of course not” Margaery smiled “There's no shame in needing help. Everyone has their weak points”

o00o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sansa sat in the stiff wooden chair in front of Mr. Baelish's desk, her back straight, legs crossed at ankles, hands folded gently in her lap.

He sat reading over her work. Eyes scanning across the page.

“Number three...correct” he said, languidly, without looking up.

Sansa bit at the inside of her lip as she saw the scratch of his pen across the page. Another tick.

Mr. Baelish was one of few male teachers here at Constance, if you did not count the groundskeepers there was only the headmaster, the history teacher, the latin teacher, and him, the arithmetic teacher. 

As with most all girls schools, where boys and men were scarce to be found, the male teachers were regarded with more reverie than the strict dorm mothers, severe school mistresses and aging nuns. Most girls favoured the history teacher, a young man of twenty six, Mr. Tyrell. 

He was Margaery's eldest brother. He had sandy brown hair and a leg injury that had seen him unfit for draft registration, which Sansa had heard girls be thankful for, since it had led him to come seek a career here instead. She had heard many more girls giggling at night, whispering his name, adding Tyrell to the end of their name to see how it sounded.

Sansa thought them silly, the way they flounced around his classroom, searched him out in the halls. Un-subtle, she thought. She had not let herself be silly around boys for a long time. 

“Number four....your working out could have been better, but correct” he took the opportunity to glance up at her and Sansa sat even straighter.

Mr. Baelish was her favourite teacher.

He had not been at the start. Sansa had hated doing her sums, and when she first met the man who thrust pages of them under her nose, she could not even consider ever being glad to see him.

But, oh, how that had changed.

“Number five, correct, number six, correct, number seven...” he paused, teasing her “.....correct”

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

She knew she was his favourite too. The way he called on her in class, smiled at her as they passed in the halls, how he beamed with pride when she got the best marks.

The way she would press her pencil to her lips up the back of his class, pink and parted as she saw him stare, meeting his gaze, wondering which one of them would be the first to look away this time.

Yes, she was definitely his favourite.

“Number eight, correct, number nine, correct”

Sansa tensed, trying not to let a smile slip onto her face as she saw him stop at the last question.

She heard his exaggerated sigh as he put down her paper, flipping it over facedown on his desk, looking up with his hard gaze.

“Number ten. Wrong”

“Wrong?” Sansa echoed, with a little furrow of her brow.

Mr. Baelish gave her quite a stern look “These weren't the hardest of questions, Sansa. You know I expected you to get them all right”

Sansa set her glance down to the floor in shame, making sure to blink prettily as she did so.

“Is nine out of ten not good enough, sir?” she asked.

“You know it isn't”

Sansa had to hold down the twitch of a smile that played at the corners of her mouth as she gazed at the floor, looking scolded.

“I'm sorry, sir” she simpered, but Baelish was already out of his chair and walking towards the door.

“Sorry isn't good enough. You know what the expectations are. Nine out of ten simply won't do at all” he said, checking the handle of the door. 

Already locked. Sansa glanced up and back at him over her chair, catching his eye. She saw him try and hold in a twitch of a smile too.

They both knew this little game by now.

“Hands on the desk” he rasped, and Sansa stepped up from her chair.

Slowly. With her usual grace. 

Not all as if she was about to bend over for the pain and pleasure given to her by a man twice her age.

You would think her the picture of sophistication as she swept her hands over the hardwood lacquered oak, bringing them out in front of her as she bent at the waist. She took ballet as a child. It was queer how much these movements reminded her of the time she would step up to the beam. Even queerer, she wished there was a mirror before her, so that she might watch herself and her teacher. 

As she felt his presence behind her, a hand on her waist, Sansa wondered how this man could inspire such thoughts in her head.

“Please, sir. I'll do better next time, I promise” she played along, voice sugar soft. The sickening thrill of adopting a little girls voice filling her.

“It's too late for that kind of talk” he said sharply “Now, push out your ass for me”

She did as she was told, arching her back, already feeling wet for him. These days all it took was to sit in that chair before him, her eagerness causing her to flex and clench the muscles of her pussy between her legs, such small movements gone un-noticable under her skirts, but oh how they got her ready.

“Spread your legs” 

Sansa made a mock struggle out of it, forcing him...letting him...slip a hand up her leg, snaking up the inner part of her thigh, to push them apart himself.

“There's a good girl....my good girl..”

She felt his hand rise, a finger trailing over the ever-straight seam of her stocking, making her shiver with an anticipation that had her whole body tight and on edge, her pussy clenching as she felt her skirt being raised up over her ass. He made sure to drag the material so agonisingly slowly over her thighs, over her hips, making her skin tingle. The girls were given school regulation pants, horrible plain, navy things, with poor elastic, but that wasn't what Sansa wore now. No, she had on her white lace pair. A present from Petyr that she kept hidden, stuffed into the end of a seldom worn shoe, buried at the bottom of her trunk, all so no one could find them.

She loved wearing them. His gift to her. Her secret. She could wear them through the halls, during mass, in any class, and no one knew what racy underthings she had on under her demure,knee length, skirt. Except for Mr. Baelish. She would shoot him a look, and cross her legs, so he would know.

He snapped at one of the garters of her stockings, earning a little squeak from her.

“Such a pretty little thing you've got here” she heard him croon, his hand stroking over her ass “A shame what you make me do to it” he snapped her other garter.

Sansa let out a small gasp as the first slap fell down on her ass. Then the second, then the third. Hard, fast. His hands hit like a whip, well practised, palms flat and aimed at the fleshiest part of her.

It took a second for the stinging to rise up in her cheeks, that small blissful taste of pain. 

“Please, sir..” she simpered.

Another slap, even harder, so that he made her cry out. A strangled noise of pain and perverse satisfaction. 

“Please, please-” Sansa pleaded as the slaps kept coming, begging for him, body tensing before his hand hit, and then shaking with release as she felt her skin ripple from his blows. He would hit both sides of her ass, alternating cheeks, a few slaps to the right, before he'd switch to the left to surprise her. He'd create a rhythm and then sub verse it, keeping her on edge. 

What he got in return was a chorus of her gasps and moans, forced from her, sounds that he took and she knew he relished. He was always silent, save for the occasional catch in his breath that Sansa caught. A laboured breathing that came from his own exertion but more from his own perversions. 

The best hits were the ones aimed at the lower part of her bottom, right close to her thighs. He'd slap in just the right way to let the vibrations travel straight to her throbbing pussy, making her tremble with need.

He paused the assault of his hands to let the full sensations of Sansa's slapped skin reach her. The tingling, the pins and needles, and best of all, the aching warmth that spread itself across her ass, making the stinging pain so sweet.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she let out a gasp of a sob, a small, meek little noise.

“My girl...” Baelish murmured “I do think I see a stain on your silks”

Sansa jolted as she felt his hand rub roughly over her mound, touching at a wet patch. He teased his fingers over her slit, the fabric clinging to her.

“This was supposed to be a punishment, but your little pussies so wet” he said, pulling down the sodden silk to hang at her thighs, and Sansa could feel the cool air hit the wetness of her lips. He could see how ready she was. Hell, he could smell her, the scent of her arousal filling the room.

“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean too...I couldn't help it” She pushed out her ass and her pussy, arching like a cat, presenting herself too him, and she heard him let out a shuddered breath.

A tremendous feminine power came over her from arousing him this way. She wanted to turn and look over her shoulder, stare at his crotch to see if he was hard, if his trousers were stiff with his erection.

He slicked a couple of finger up the very centre of her, making her whimper. He lapped at her with those fingers, deliberately causing the sticky, sucking sounds of her wetness to fill her ears “Oh dear” he chided “Practically dripping... Do you always make such a mess of yourself?” Sansa gasped as grabbed at her, hand cupping the mound of her pussy, claiming ownership of her. He shook her roughly “Do you sit in your chair at the back of my class, thinking of this, getting so wet you seep through your silks? If I ever looked, would I find a little wet patch on the seat left behind as you leave?”

Sansa moaned as Petyr massaged his hand against her core, a pale pink softness, and her ass, tinged red by his slaps “Mmm, yes sir”

“Filthy girl” He muttered, before he brought down his hand on her ass again.

She let out a cry of agony and ecstasy, the fresh pain building on top of the subsiding aches of moments before.

“Touch me again, sir, please” she nearly whispered, before crying out at another hard slap.

“You're not the one giving orders here” he reminded her.

Yes, she knew that. It had always been that way. The joy in being passive, to give the reigns of her pleasure over to someone else in this game they played, a pleasure in taking orders and being his good little girl, but she needed a release. Her pussy was throbbing, filled with an ache that needed to be sated by a cock or his fingers.

“Please!” she tried again, her voice growing needy.

All she got was another slap, this one sitting low on her ass so that it reverberated through her core, only making her knees grow weaker.

Boldly, she thrust her own hand between her legs, rubbing fervently over her own clit, hard and fast, gasping into the desk. 

“Sansa!” Petyr growled, angry that she was breaking their play, that she would step outside her role, but she couldn't help it. She couldn't stop once she had started, she was already so aroused, the flashes of heat already spreading through as she rocked against her own hand.

“Hands on the desk!” He ordered, giving her one last chance, but she ignored it.

She cried out as he gripped her hair tightly in his fist, pulling her head back “Put. Your hands. On the desk” 

The low warning in his voice. The way he all but hissed the words, holding himself back from truly shouting. She could hear an ever slight tremor to his tone.

Sansa realised how sick of a girl she must be, to love that anger. This dominance he exuded over her. To grow all the wetter for it, relishing in the pain as he gave another tug on her hair as her fingers rubbed desperately over her clit. The little girl who was sick and tired of being nice. To hell with her shame, to hell with her upbringing, to hell with her for all she cared. In this room she was not Sansa Stark, the last of her family, expected to be all that entailed and more. She wasn't anything but his in this room, she didn't have to be anything but his good little girl, feel anything but the heat between her legs. She let so much go in this room. She gave it all to him.

Could anyone really tell? Did anyone look at and see the sin that sat beneath the surface of her? Sansa wondered if it showed sometimes, that she was not as good as they all thought. That perfect little Sansa would misbehave just to be disciplined, humiliated, to be played with as if she was a bought whore. She wondered if anyone noticed how she slipped from her bed at night to the toilets, where she would bolt the stall, and rub between her legs so furiously it was hard to keep quiet, all while thinking of him. The way she slipped her own fingers inside herself, imagining what his cock might feel like in their place. Sometimes she would open the stall door to watch herself in the mirror, watch as she fucked herself. Anyone could walk in if they heard her, heard the slick-slick-slick of her fingers as it echoed off the tiles. Sometimes she wished they would. Sansa was sure she would deride some sort of sick pleasure in shocking them all, revealing this part of herself. This heathen side of her that he brought out.

“Please, sir, please, please, please” she begged, cried out from the bottom of her damned little heart, wanting to be fucked, wanting to be taken.

He lost his patience, reaching around to grab at her own hand, to pull her away from herself. She was wrenched away from between her legs, and he forced both her palms back face down on the desk. Sansa struggled against him, her need still unquenched. Her hands now spread in front of her, his own now covering them, holding them in place, and she tried squeezing her thighs together, clenching her pussy again, but it wasn't enough, not now.

She was only ever given his hands, for discipline and for pleasure. For all the times she had been called to his office, stayed late after classes, her teacher was always a step back from her. But now he loomed over her, his body closer to hers than it ever usually was, and she could use that.

Sansa pressed back her ass, finding contact with his hips, pressing their bodies together. She could feel him, hard for her. The strangled moan she drew from him made Sansa beam with pride, smiling against the desk as she arched her back, rolling her hips back against him.

She rutted against him until his voice cracked above her “Sansa” he said, a warning, but her name gave her power.

“I want you to fuck me” she said, filthy words coupled with her innocent looks, her voice pandering to him in that childlike way she knew he liked “Please, sir....please fuck me, please-”

She needed this. This release. Toilet stalls, her own hands and muffled cried wouldn't do it anymore, she needed him, she needed his hands, his cock, she wanted to scream for him, have him cry her name back, tell her she was perfect, all of her, even this dirty part of her that only he would ever be able to see. He was the only person in the world who could give her that. No one else would ever know all of her like he did.

She finally felt him lean forward into her, his hips pressing into her ass, and she rubbed back against him greedily, her hips bucking against him.

“Little slut...” he muttered from above her “So desperate for some cock...”

Sansa turned to study his face. She could see how heavy his breathing had become, and feel how his hands curled above hers, shaking as she gyrated against his erection, thick and hot through his trousers.

He wanted to fuck her, she knew it.

Was he now pretending to be a decent man? Had a sense of morality struck him at this most inopportune moment?

She gazed up at him until his eyes flickered open, looking down to catch her gaze. She made her blue eyes as wide as she could, looking up through her lashes, parting her lips as she breathed out her words.

“Your cock, just yours” She breathed “I'm your slut,... no one else's”

He bucked his hips against her with a force that made her gasp. He started to thrust against her in that same dry, raw way she had against him, and Sansa quickly started to meet his movements, grinding together. Any resolve he had was weakening.

“Please, please, please!” She chanted, barely aware she was even saying it, the words falling from her lips in desperation for more. She almost didn't hear her teachers own muttered words above her.

“Damn you, girl” he said, pulling back, with Sansa hearing the clink of his belt buckle, as he went to undo it.

Yes, Sansa thought, her body shuddering as she pressed her warm body against the cool desk, hearing the slip of material behind her, his trousers falling to the floor.

The next thing she felt was a sudden pressure against her slit, his cock pressing against her lips, swollen and ready. She hesitated, ready for him to plunge his way into her, but he took his time. For a moment he simply rested himself against her, the length of him. She made herself still, though her body trembled.

“It may hurt” he said, in a voice that did not sound like her teacher.

“I don't care” she answered “I like all the other ways you hurt me, sir” she added playfully, and she was glad to hear him let out a breath at that, his hand raking up the side of her thigh, gentle against the red soreness of her ass.

“Petyr...” he said, guiding his cock to gently stroke up and down her wetness, making her moan “When I fuck you, you call me Petyr”

Then he thrust, and Sansa cried out in earnest as she felt a great pressure.

It did hurt. He wasn't going to fit, it didn't feel like it was going to go in, she thought, gaping against the desk as she felt him push against her, but that was only half a moment before she felt a give, and then he was inside her, sliding in, filling her.

She felt him shudder and moan above her, easing himself in slowly, relishing in this moment.

“Fuck...” was all he whispered “God, your tight...Sansa, my sweet girl...my little slut...”

She should relish this too, she realised. This was the moment she lost her virginity. Though in truth she did not feel like she was losing much. She had not felt pure in a long time.

The pain was sharp at first, making her wince as her body stretched to fit him. Then he began to pull in and out, slow, drawn out thrusts, to get her used to the sensations, and as the rhythm started. The pain subsided into a pleasant ache, and then Sansa felt the first wave of warmth hit her from within. 

The two intermixed as he picked up his pace, the warmth and the ache, feeling it at her core. They both echoed throughout her body, the pain and the pleasure intermixing as he drive himself deeper and deeper.

“Petyr” she tested out the name. Moaned it sinfully. Drew it out slowly.

“Good girl....good girl” he urged, panting above her just as she did. Their bodies were mirrors of each other now, both losing themselves in the act, sweat beginning to glisten on their skin, neither of them holding onto any facade of control now.

Their movements became faster, Sansa meeting his thrusts with her own. Sansa could not believe the sounds, the wet slapping of their bodies hitting against each other, the sucking, the squelching. It was disgusting and lovely at the same time, and it drove her on to press herself down against his cock even harder, faster. She felt a streak of her own wetness drip down between her thighs and It was not long before their sex grew frenzied, nothing but instinct driving them, that intense need for release.

Sansa cried out as she reached her climax, white hot waves fanning out through her hips, her pussy clenching and pulsating around her teachers cock. This beautiful, hard brutal heat it gave her from within. Petyr's cock, she thought, still thrust deep inside her as she shook and rode out her pleasure, panting, legs shaking, body pressed so hard against the desk. The smell of sex, and sweat, his cologne and her own cum filling her nostrils, dizzying her as she gripped on for what felt like life, nothing in her head but this. Perfect, perfect, this, nothing could be more perfect. This was what animals killed for, what humans were made for, craved, wanted, ached for, she understood it all now in that perfect moment of pure orgasm.

There was a deep, guttural, moan from behind her as she felt a sudden emptiness. Petyr withdrew from her, and within seconds he had come, leaving it till the last minute to pull out and spill himself across her ass in short spurts. She felt it warm on her skin, dripping down her.

For a second they breathed together. Caught their breath.

Sansa pulled herself up from the desk, still leaning against it for support. Her legs were still shaking.

She turned to see Petyr, sweat covering his brow as he pulled up and buckled his trousers, breathing heavily. He looked as if he had ran a marathon. She wondered if she looked the same, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face.

She did not know what to say. Sansa wondered if she could kiss him, she certainly had the desire too.....but no.

No, that seemed to intimate, she thought, quite madly.

“You should go get yourself composed for dinner” Petyr warned. Mr. Baelish, she thought now “Not a hair out of place. Wash up if you can, even”

He sounded worried, Sansa realised, so she gave him a smile. The practised one she gave everybody else, slipping back into the Sansa she was before she stepped into the room, as if to prove how well she could do it “Yes, Mr. Baelish”

And without another word she pulled out her fresh embroidered handkerchief, the one with the daintily patterned birds and hydrangeas, and her powder blue intitials in the corner, as she dabbed at her ass.

She wiped her teachers cum off her skin in gentle little swipes, before pulling her silks up, as wet as they were, and dropping her skirt back over her raw, red, flesh. 

Ever the epitome of a perfect lady.

**Author's Note:**

> Really glad I finished this one. Inspiration came from a couple of places. One being that I've loved the St Trinians since I was young and my dad showed me the original old movies, and naughty school girl tropes are amazing. Plus, I don't know if anyone else remembers that Ladette to Lady show? Where stuffy british women emulate one of those olden day finishing schools and send crazy, party girls there to shame them on national television for not knowing what a salad fork looks like? Yeah, I remember that show. It was great TV, but I couldn't understand what kind of girl would WANT to be like a stuffy british, outdated, archtype of british society....then I thought. Sansa would fucking rock at that tho.
> 
> Also, I wanted to write some porn. Had a hankerin' for some spankerin'. I hope you like!


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